English is not a language that has traditionally shown much respect for international borders. It has spent centuries wandering into other languages, stuffing useful words into its coat pockets, and hurrying away before anyone can check the silverware.

We took kindergarten from German, entrepreneur from French, patio from Spanish, shampoo from Hindi, and karaoke from Japanese. We even borrowed bungalow, possibly because “a moderately priced single-story house with foundation problems” took too long to say.

And yet, despite containing hundreds of thousands of words, English still forces us to use entire sentences to describe experiences that other languages have sensibly compressed into a single term.

Why should we have to say, “I attempted to improve the situation but accidentally made everything substantially worse,” when German has already done the paperwork? Why explain, “I am not hungry, but my mouth would like to participate in some sort of activity,” when Japanese has that covered?

Here are five foreign words English should adopt immediately. No committee is required. In fact, as the first word will demonstrate, involving a committee may only make things worse.

Verschlimmbessern: Making Something Worse While Trying to Improve It

Language: German
Approximate pronunciation: fehr-SHLIM-bess-ern
Meaning: To make something worse while attempting to improve it.

Few words capture the human condition as efficiently as the German verb verschlimmbessern.

The Duden German dictionary defines it as making something worse with the intention of improving it. That distinction is important. This is not ordinary destruction. A toddler pouring grape juice into a laptop is not verschlimmbessern. The toddler had no improvement plan. He was simply fulfilling the job description of being a toddler.

Verschlimmbessern requires good intentions.

You notice a small scratch on a wooden table. You decide to repair it. After sanding, staining, buffing, repainting, stripping, and briefly considering arson, the table now looks as though it was recovered from a shipwreck.

That is verschlimmbessern.

Your boss observes that requiring employees to fill out three separate forms by hand to request office supplies is inefficient, so he appoints a six-person committee to fix the problem. After eight meetings, 366 emails, and countless staff hours, the committee unveils a streamlined new procedure requiring only one form. Unfortunately, the form is 12 pages long, must be completed with a No. 3 pencil, and can be processed only by an employee in another state who does not have internet access.

Again: verschlimmbessern.

The word applies to home repairs, software updates, corporate reorganizations, tax reform, website redesigns, and anyone who has ever trimmed his own hair after noticing one side looked slightly uneven.

English has related expressions. We can “make matters worse,” “overcorrect,” “botch the repair,” or “turn a minor problem into a major catastrophe involving the fire department.” None of these, however, captures the special combination of optimism and incompetence contained in verschlimmbessern.

The word recognizes that the person responsible was not malicious. He sincerely believed he was helping. This does not restore the table, recover the deleted files, or explain why the kitchen sink is now spraying water horizontally, but it does provide useful psychological context.

There is also a noun: Verschlimmbesserung, an attempted improvement that makes things worse.

English needs both forms.

“What happened to the employee handbook?”

“A Verschlimmbesserung.”

Everyone nods. No further questions are necessary. Somewhere, a subcommittee quietly adjourns.

Irusu: Pretending You Are Not Home

Language: Japanese
Pronunciation: ee-roo-soo
Meaning: Being at home while pretending to be away.

The doorbell rings.

You freeze.

You were making coffee, watching television, vacuuming the living room, or playing the trombone near an open window. There can be little reasonable doubt that the house is occupied. Nevertheless, you become perfectly still and wait for the visitor to accept the obvious fiction that no one is home.

The Japanese call this irusu.

The Japanese term 居留守 is defined by the Digital Daijisen dictionary as pretending to be absent while actually remaining at home. English requires a cumbersome phrase such as “pretending not to be home,” which lacks the crisp efficiency needed when one is crouching silently behind the sofa.

Irusu is not quite the same thing as ignoring someone. Ignoring can be done openly and with confidence. Irusu involves a small theatrical production in which the homeowner plays the role of an empty building.

Successful irusu requires discipline.

The television must be muted. Children must be persuaded not to shout, “Dad, why are we hiding?” The dog must abandon its constitutional duty to announce the presence of every human, squirrel, delivery truck, and leaf within a three-mile radius.

Modern technology has made irusu both easier and more complicated. Video doorbells allow homeowners to inspect visitors without approaching the curtains like a suspicious Victorian widow. On the other hand, the visitor may have already seen your shadow pass behind the frosted glass.

This creates the advanced form of irusu: pretending not to be home while both parties know perfectly well that you are.

At that point, the issue is no longer factual. It is diplomatic.

The visitor rings again. You remain silent. The visitor stares into the camera. You watch the visitor staring into the camera. Neither side acknowledges the other. This is essentially a Cold War conducted through a doorbell manufactured in Shenzhen.

English urgently needs irusu because unannounced visitors have not disappeared. They have merely evolved. The nineteenth-century caller arrived with a calling card. The twenty-first-century caller arrives holding a clipboard and asking whether you have considered switching energy providers.

There are, of course, legitimate reasons not to answer the door. You may be busy, ill, improperly dressed, or unwilling to spend forty-five minutes discussing replacement windows with a man who has interpreted “no” as the opening stage of negotiations.

Irusu gives the practice a name without passing judgment.

You were not hiding.

You were engaged in irusu.

It sounds almost meditative.

Kuchisabishii: When Your Mouth Is Lonely

Language: Japanese
Pronunciation: koo-chee-sah-bee-shee
Meaning: Wanting something to eat, chew, smoke, or otherwise put in the mouth, even when genuine hunger is not necessarily the issue.

You have finished dinner.

You are full. Possibly overfull. You have reached the stage at which standing up requires planning permission.

Then you walk through the kitchen, notice a bag of potato chips, and think, “I could eat something.”

No, you could not. Your stomach has already filed a capacity objection. But your mouth, apparently excluded from the evening’s decision-making process, would like a project.

This is kuchisabishii.

The word is often translated literally as “lonely mouth.” The Digital Daijisen entry for kuchisabishii describes the feeling of wanting something to put in one’s mouth and gives smoking as one possible example. It can also refer to feeling that the amount of food provided is unsatisfying.

In everyday use, however, it perfectly describes recreational eating: consuming food not because the body requires nourishment, but because the mouth has grown bored and is considering unionizing.

Kuchisabishii explains why someone can say, “I’m not hungry,” while opening the refrigerator for the third time in ten minutes.

Nothing new has appeared inside. The refrigerator contains the same mustard, leftover casserole, aging celery, and container whose contents can no longer be identified without forensic testing.

Still, the door opens.

The person stares.

The refrigerator stares back.

Eventually, a piece of cheese is removed, not because anyone needed cheese, but because the mouth had submitted a formal request.

English usually calls this “snacking,” but that describes the action rather than the motive. A snack may answer genuine hunger. Kuchisabishii identifies the peculiar urge behind eating six crackers while waiting for the microwave to finish heating the food you supposedly could not wait two minutes to eat.

The phenomenon becomes particularly powerful during movies, road trips, sporting events, and any meeting in which a bowl of candy has been placed within reach.

You may not even like the candy. It might consist entirely of the flavors everyone else rejected. Yet your hand continues traveling between the bowl and your mouth, apparently operating under separate management.

This is why office candy dishes are always empty except for two peppermint discs and a piece of hard candy that appears to have been manufactured during the Eisenhower administration.

Kuchisabishii is also useful because it allows us to distinguish between two very different statements:

“I am hungry” means the body needs food.

“I am kuchisabishii” means the body is adequately fed, but the mouth would appreciate something salty and has little regard for long-term consequences.

That is valuable information. Doctors, nutritionists, and the person who bought the family-size bag of pretzels all deserve to know what they are dealing with.

Arigata-Meiwaku: The Favor You Wish Had Never Happened

Language: Japanese
Pronunciation: ah-ree-gah-tah may-wah-koo
Meaning: An unwanted favor, excessive kindness, or well-intentioned act that creates inconvenience for the recipient.

Someone decides to help you.

This sounds promising.

It is not.

You return home to discover that a relative has reorganized your kitchen. The plates are now stored above the refrigerator, the spices have been arranged according to color rather than name, and the can opener has entered the federal witness protection program.

Your helper beams.

“I knew you would appreciate it.”

You do not.

But because the act was intended as a kindness, you are expected to express gratitude while privately wondering whether the relationship can survive.

This is arigata-meiwaku.

The Japanese expression ありがた迷惑 combines the idea of gratitude with inconvenience or trouble. It is commonly translated as an “unwelcome favor,” “mixed blessing,” or kindness that becomes a nuisance. Japanese usage examples include excessive hospitality, burdensome gifts, and assistance that the recipient did not request.

English speakers know the experience well. We simply lack a compact term for it.

Arigata-meiwaku is the neighbor who sees that you have started painting the garage and decides to finish the job using a slightly different shade.

It is the person who washes your cast-iron skillet until every trace of seasoning has been removed and the surface gleams like a surgical instrument.

It is the houseguest who strips the bed to “save you some work,” then places the sheets, blanket, pillows, and mattress pad in one damp pile on the floor.

It is the coworker who notices that your computer desktop is cluttered and thoughtfully sorts all your documents into folders with names such as “Miscellaneous,” “Other,” and “Old Stuff.”

The defining feature is not merely that the help failed. That would bring us back to verschlimmbessern. With arigata-meiwaku, the burden often lies in the social obligation created by the favor.

You must now thank the person who has made your life more difficult.

That is the genius of the word. It captures two opposing emotions forced to share the same room: appreciation for the intention and irritation at the result.

“Thank you for cutting down that tree.”

“You’re welcome.”

“We were planning to keep it.”

“Oh.”

“But thank you.”

Western culture has produced several proverbs about this problem. The road to hell is paved with good intentions. No good deed goes unpunished. Too many cooks spoil the broth. These all circle the issue, but none quite describes the moment when someone gives you an enormous piece of furniture you do not want and then waits expectantly while you rearrange your house around it.

Arigata-meiwaku belongs in English immediately, particularly in families, offices, churches, and volunteer organizations—anywhere people are likely to act generously before asking whether their generosity is needed.

A simple question could prevent much suffering:

“Would this actually help, or am I about to commit arigata-meiwaku?”

Entire relationships might be saved.

Hurkle-Durkle: Staying in Bed When You Should Be Up

Language: Scots
Pronunciation: hur-kul dur-kul
Meaning: To lie in bed or lounge around when one ought to be up and active.

Of all the words on this list, hurkle-durkle sounds most like the activity it describes.

You do not leap out of bed and hurkle-durkle. You sink, burrow, roll, nest, and negotiate with the alarm clock.

The authoritative Dictionary of the Scots Language records hurkle-durkle as both a noun associated with indolence and a verb meaning to lie in bed or lounge about when one should be up. The dictionary traces the expression in Fife to at least 1825.

Human beings had been remaining in bed long before 1825, of course. The Scots were simply considerate enough to give the practice a name.

English offers “sleeping in,” but that is too narrow. A person can be fully awake while hurkle-durkling. In fact, wakefulness may be an essential part of the experience.

You know you should get up.

You have seen the clock.

You understand that responsibilities are accumulating beyond the bedroom door.

Possibly, you are experiencing the state of zwodder, another wonderful word that we explored in an earlier article.

Nevertheless, you remain beneath the blankets, studying your phone, staring at the ceiling, or conducting increasingly creative calculations about how quickly you could shower, dress, eat breakfast, and reach work if you delayed getting up by another nine minutes.

This is not sleep. It is strategic postponement.

Hurkle-durkle also differs from ordinary laziness because it carries an atmosphere of coziness. A person slumped on a folding chair in a bus station is not truly hurkle-durkling. The word wants pillows. It wants blankets. It wants rain tapping gently against the window and an appointment that seemed reasonable when scheduled three weeks earlier.

The invention of the snooze button transformed hurkle-durkling from an occasional indulgence into a renewable nine-minute subscription service.

The first alarm is not treated as an instruction. It is more of an opening statement.

The alarm says, “It is time to get up.”

You say, “I acknowledge receipt of your communication.”

Nine minutes later, negotiations resume.

The Scots word is useful because “I overslept” suggests an accident. Hurkle-durkle is more honest. You were conscious. You knew the risks. You made a decision.

It was not necessarily the correct decision, but the blankets had retained counsel.

A Complete Day in Five Foreign Words

These five words are not merely linguistic curiosities. Together, they can describe an entire day.

You begin by hurkle-durkling in bed long after the alarm sounds.

When the doorbell rings, you practice irusu, remaining motionless even though the visitor can probably hear the television.

By midmorning, you experience kuchisabishii and eat several handfuls of snacks despite having recently finished breakfast.

A helpful relative arrives and commits arigata-meiwaku by reorganizing your garage without asking.

You attempt to put everything back and verschlimmbessern the situation, causing an entire shelving unit to collapse onto the lawn mower.

At that point, the only sensible response is to return to bed and resume hurkle-durkling.

English does not need fewer words. We have plenty, including 15 obsolete words that really need to make a comeback. It needs better ones—words that identify those small, absurdly specific experiences we all recognize but currently require a paragraph to explain.

Fortunately, other languages have already done much of the work.

We merely need to borrow the words.

English has been doing that for centuries, and there is no reason to verschlimmbessern the system now.

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